Good friends and a bottle of Douro.
So, Manuel and I have been on the move quite a lot lately. Who's Manuel? He's a long-time friend who was kind enough to join me on a Lisbon – Malaga trip in the middle of December. Why? you might ask, I have no idea, other than the fact that one doesn’t choose their relatives, but thankfully, the same doesn’t apply to friends. So here we are.
The End of the Ocean.
Please don't wake me, I beg you,
but let me sleep this sleep,
whether it's peaceful like a child's
or stinks of the snoring of a drunk.
[…]
(Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso - “Io Sono Nato Libero” (1973)
High on olive oil in Gafanha da Boa Hora
"Boa noite, não falo português, têm uma mesa para uma pessoa?" This has become my signature entrance whenever I step into a restaurant here in Portugal. I lay it all on the table, for lack of a better paraphrase: "Love me or make fun of me, dear host, but I am here to eat, and I'll do it solo."
Absence and presence and absence.
I have been awakened not once, but twice by the dog barking in the campervan next to mine. However, what roused my foggy mind was the absence of the roaring of the ocean waves; a white noise that kept me quiet – if not warm – during the long night hours.
Toledo doesn’t smell.
Ever had the feeling that you’re out of place somehow? Not unwanted or marginalised; you’re just in a space where you don’t belong. It happens to the best of us at one point or another, so don’t worry if you’re pretending that it has never occurred to you.
Volteadas del viento.
Se ne stanno lì, su colline morbide, fatte apposta per farci cambiare strada; un piccolo moto ondulatorio della superficie terrestre, che rimane nel quadrante più esterno dello sguardo, che poi è quello riservato ai segreti.
No drones, en Córdoba.
The lady at the gate looks me in the eye and smiles slightly, arching just one corner of her mouth. 'No drones en Córdoba,' she tells me, her voice's volume flirting with impoliteness. I glance at her hands still inside my rucksack, then meet her gaze, as steadfast as the two pillars framing her round face.
With heads tilted and eyes half-closed.
Ask me if I liked Granada and I will genuinely tell you that I did. I’ll probably stop for a few seconds to remember what I saw – 3 weeks into this journey, I have to admit that my mind struggles to distinguish one place from another – before coming back to you with a smile and saying, “Oh yes, I loved it.”
Riding the storm into Malaga's heart.
Our journey to Malaga was nothing short of an epic adventure. As we navigated our 3.5-tonne motorhome, we found ourselves in a dramatic showdown with Storm Ciaran.
Got in, got down, got stuck.
Dear extraterrestrial comrade, greetings. It is I, the machine, the van, motorhome, the two-bedroom flat on six wheels, engaging in this one-sided conversation.